Music for Candlemas

Here is the music list for Candlemas at St. Paul’s, Philadelphia (TLM):

Herbert Howells: Missa sine nomine
Richard Sheppard: Hodie Beata Virgo Maria
Propers from the Liber Usualis
On the organ:
Jean Langlais: Offertoire from Hommage a Frescobaldi (“Lucis Creator”)
Kevin Allen: Alma Redemptoris Mater
Herbert Howells is most famous in the Anglican Church, but he has left us a number of things that are definitely Catholic, like this Mass without name, also called the Mass in the Dorian Mode. Written for Richard Terry and the Westminster Cathedral Choir, which has a long tradition not only of resurrecting Renaissance polyphony but also of commissioning new works, this Mass was performed within weeks of Howells’s arrival in London in 1912.
Some have called it a study in counterpoint, and it is, as subtitles such as “canon in unison” attest. But the piece is, as you might expect, much more interesting than what you would find in a book by Fux. Howells even includes dynamic and expressive markings, not to mention a few harmonically juicy moments that give away the date of the composition. The dissonances at the minor 2nd on downbeats in the Agnus Dei are particularly lovely.
All the same, Howells embraces the full tradition of polyphony in this work, and I dare say English polyphony. The work reminds me far more of Byrd and Tallis than of Palestrina. It has a flair that the English are so famous for, and which Palestrina, in his placidity, usually lacked. That’s not to say that placidity doesn’t have its place, of course.
In spite of being diagnosed with Grave’s disease early in life, Howells lived to be ninety-one. This might have been helped along by the fact that he was ineligible to be drafted during World War I precisely because of his illness. As a side note, Howells’s Clavicord is a fine collection of really neat pieces that keyboard players might want to look up. It’s totally off the church music map, and that’s a nice, um, counterpoint sometimes.
I cannot find any information on Richard Sheppard. If he is the same person as the other composer, Richard Shepherd, I cannot substantiate it. (Neither of these are to be confused with John Sheppard! Nicknames are useful, I suppose!) At any rate, this little motet was composed in 2009 and is quite lovely and I dare say simple enough to find its way into the repertoire of many choirs.
The Langlais prelude is one instance in which this particular composer’s quirkiness works well. Like Howells, he takes a traditional form and builds on it with 20th century harmonic material. A kind of brooding dance is played in the manuals, its effect highlighted by a 16′ stop in the Great, making a kind of darkness through which the light of the Cantus Firmus Lucis Creator, played in the pedal, can sing through.
At this point everyone knows Kevin Allen. This setting of Alma Redemptoris Mater comes from his collection of Twelve Gregorian Preludes, and it’s one of my favorites. Both grand and buoyant, it explodes the myth that seems to be out there that Gregorian chant is just for funerals and the Agnus Dei in Lent. Kevin’s treatment of this piece seems to me to be a fitting way to say goodbye to the Christmas cycle and the singing of this beautiful antiphon.

No Great Composers Since Purcell—Part 6,431

Some music commentators have been given to say that England hasn’t had any great composers since Henry Purcell. I often think of this strange sentiment every time I happen upon a new English composer who is fantastic, if not frankly downright great. A more recent discovery of mine is Francis Pott, who is part of a whole movement of composers from that country who are continuing its tradition of choral music, the tradition that introduced the European continent to the major third as a consonance in the fifteenth century.

Here is his setting of Ubi Caritas:

Contemporaries never have the final say on a given work of art, and that’s as it should be. As for Purcell, however, I don’t remember the last time I was in the mood to listen to his music.

Heinrich Isaac’s Missa Carminum

This past weekend at St. Paul’s in Philadelphia we sang Heinrich Isaac’s Missa Carminum. It’s a bit of a strange piece but lovely nonetheless. For one thing, the voicing is tricky, at best. As far as I can determine, this should really be sung STTB. The high tenor part can be done with a countertenor, but even transposing as high up as A-flat would still make it an acrobatic part that crosses over many singers’ breaks. It’s probably better to have two tenors in general. We sang it in F# (we have a courageous and competent countertenor) but the next time we do it, I just might take it up another full step. I’m also tempted to make my own version with the note values halved. The one recording of this Mass on iTunes features a men’s choir with a children’s choir, which might be one of the better ways to mind the gap between the top two voices. As unusual as the voicing is, it gives the piece a fantastically rich sonority, warm and delicious and yet workaday.

Isaac was a contemporary of Josquin’s, but this isn’t entirely obvious from the music itself. He organizes the sections of his Mass in much the same way that many late Medieval and early Renaissance composers did, using full cadences a bit more often than a later Renaissance composer would use. At times, too, he gets long winded, but then at the last minute treats the last few words of a phrase in businesslike fashion. The third Agnus Dei is a good example of this.
All the same, the harmonic language is practically straight up F major, and the melodic figures are not as challenging as they’d be in a Mass by Josquin, Taverner, or Dufay. In fact, there is a great deal of homophonic writing. Moreover, the Mass isn’t nearly as long as many others from the same time period. In short, it seems that Isaac was composing a bit ahead of his time. This Mass is a good choice if you’re looking for accessible repertoire from a period that’s a little earlier than most ears can handle. Maybe it’s even one of those bridge pieces that opens up doors for people (if I may be permitted to mix metaphors).
This Mass looks scarier than it is, and I promise to let everyone know if I ever get around to making a more practical version. (If someone else wants to do it, by all means, I won’t stop you!) If a choir has the right voices, that is the biggest hurdle. Beyond this, the Mass pretty much sings itself.

Memento mori

It has not been a particularly good week for musicians. First Gustav Leonhardt died, and then Etta James (what a voice!) and now, sadly, word has gotten around that Gerre Hancock, long time organist and choirmaster at St. Thomas Church, Fifth Avenue, died today in the arms of his wife and colleague, Judith.

Hancock was world-famous particularly for his great improvisations; he is a figure who will likely still be emulated in a hundred years alongside Pierre Cochereau, Olivier Messiaen and others. He wrote a book on improvisation which I confess I have yet to look at. Perhaps his most notable saying is that “salvation is a half step away.” In improv, it’s easy to get into a rut, and the way out of this is to modulate. More than once my somniferous doodlings have been rehabilitated by remembering this advice.
I never met Hancock and only heard him live once many years ago in an Anglican Evensong given by the St. Thomas Choir. It was one of those unforgettable performances, where the music is so beautiful and makes you feel so ecstatic that you feel like you’ve left your body. Time stops. Now time has stopped for Dr. Hancock, and we hope he will meet a Great Reward for a life well-lived.

Steve Jobs on Gregorian Chant

I got eight books for Christmas, so I’ve been trying to get through them as quickly as possible so that I don’t lose momentum and neglect any of them. Last night I stayed up until I finished the exceedingly lengthy biography on Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson. It is at turns highly informative and inspiring, not to mention a tad bit repetitive and gory, I must say, but a worthwhile read.

It’s no secret that Jobs operated with a mindset that quickly cast people either as geniuses or bozos, and that a person could go from one category to the next in an instant. He was the same way with products and ideas: It could either be the greatest thing ever, or a useless pile of garbage, and verdicts were often rendered within microseconds. This is a value system based exclusively on competence and incompetence, which I’m not necessarily judging, at least not in blanket fashion, but just want to point out, because there is one paragraph where that paradigm seems to be suspended. In March 2011, after the iPad2 came out, Isaacson sat with Jobs as he scrolled through some of his favorite music. From page 413:
“We went through the usual Dylan and Beatles favorites, then he became more reflective and tapped on a Gregorian chant, ‘Spiritus Domini,’ performed by Benedictine monks. For a minute or so he zoned out, almost in a trance. ‘That’s really beautiful,’ he murmured.”
Jobs goes on to discuss Bach, his favorite classical composer, and the differences in the two famous recordings of the Goldberg Variations made by Glenn Gould. I’m fascinated that Jobs seems to simply be sitting at the feet of this music, just taking it in. I was kind of surprised by this paragraph, because in other parts of the book Isaacson documents how Jobs owned a historic mansion that he wanted to tear down to build a modern house. He was resisted by preservationists, and by the time he won the court battle he had lost interest in the project, but he clearly didn’t care about a beautiful historic house. So here is this guy with a revolutionary, possibly even iconoclastic, spirit who liked to call people bozos and products garbage who listens to a Gregorian chant and just says, “That’s really beautiful.”
I wonder which recording he was listening to. I actually prefer the work of the Cistercian Monks of Stift Heiligenkreutz, who put out a recording a few years ago, which includes a number of the chants for Pentecost, Spiritus Domini being the Introit for the feast. These monks have a light and airy but full-blooded sound (ok, I need to knock it off…starting to sound like a wine-taster) and it is really head and shoulders above the recordings from some more famous monasteries.
In a way, it makes sense that such a revolutionary character as Steve Jobs would like chant. Chant is so different from what we’re used to hearing that it forces us to actually listen. Music ceases to be ear candy or entertainment and becomes art.

Upcoming Concerts of Kile Smith’s Vespers

It hardly seems like four years ago that Kile Smith’s Epiphany Vespers, commissioned by the early music ensemble Piffaro, made its premier in Philadelphia. Conductor Donald Nally led his own chorus The Crossing, which specializes in contemporary music, along with Piffaro in a work of singular originality.

Using the Lutheran Vespers service as the structural model, Smith fuses modern compositional techniques with time-tested musical processes for a work that displays the best of traditio and tradere. Like the Lutheran liturgy of the Renaissance era, both Latin and German languages are used. As I recall, Latin is used mainly for the Psalmody, while German is used for the chorales. (Many German chorales, I might add, are more-or-less re-worked Gregorian chant.)
One thing I have been wondering about is the liturgical role of the opening Alleluia that begins the work. Is this artistic license, or is it how the Lutheran Vespers, at least on feast days, began? Or is it representative of the Alleluia which often follows the opening sentences? I don’t know. I’m curious. I should ask him, but I never think of it when Kile is around.
A few years ago, a recording of this magnificent piece was released by Navona records. Now, Vespers is being prepared for live performance once again. The concerts are:
Saturday, January 7, 8pm: Old St. Joseph’s Church, Philadelphia
Sunday, January 8, 4pm: Presbyterian Church of Chestnut Hill
Monday, January 9, 7:30pm: Park Ave. Christian Church, New York
This series will include the New York premiere of the Vespers. Each concert will be preceded by a 45 minute pre-concert talk given by the composer.
For a taste, here are some relevant clips:
And a report by Philly critic David Patrick Stearns:

Michael Procter’s Transcription of Alma Redemptoris Mater

In my programming, I try to do a good portion of new music. I think it’s important, not least because for certain audiences it brings a whole world to life that they otherwise wouldn’t know. Some years ago, radio stations were swamped with phone calls when they played Henryck Gorecki’s Symphony No. 3. How many of them were turned on to classical music because of that experience? Similarly, one of my singers tells me that as she was listening to the recording of our performance of Wilko Brouwers’s Missa Alme Pater, her husband, a folk singer not particularly interested in “serious” music (I hate that term; anyone have a better one?), was intrigued. New music is a gateway.

Maybe I’m off my rocker but I feel like looking at old music in new ways is also related to this approach. It keeps us from using music as a mere mood-setter, as ear candy. It isn’t just the sacro-pop crowd that would have it this way, either. The entertainment mentality reaches into every ideology; but we ought to be artists in the strictest and best sense of that term.
To look at an old song in a new way is to work to make a piece of art even better, to try to come closer to its ideal form. Perhaps the genre of chant offers a particularly broad space for this, owing to the indefinite nature of the early manuscripts. Efforts like the Solesmes method have given the chant repertoire a great deal of advantageous stability, but when the cards are on the table I insist on treating chant as music and not cramming it into a school-shaped box. And so, when someone presents a new realization of a chant, I give it a serious look.
Using the Hartker manuscript and the Worcester Antiphonale, Michael Procter has given us a particularly gorgeous reconsideration of the solemn tone of Alma Redemptoris Mater, the Marian antiphon for Advent and Christmastide. I make an effort to use this several times a year. Not only is the melody different—several of the cadences are spine-tingling and the lines are more florid—but the rhythms have a surprising agility. Several figures involving the quilisma lack the preceding dotted punctum that we’re so accustomed to seeing. (I’m assuming this isn’t a misprint.) It brings a completely different energy to the line, a playfulness that is fitting for the subject matter of the text.
If your schola can handle the standard chant repertoire, it can handle this little gem from Michael Procter. Some may think that such efforts introduce needless controversy, but it seems to me that a healthy appreciation of these efforts can be maintained if everyone holds just a small amount of uncertainty about it. This is not to say that scholarship should be discarded in favor of whim, but for me the foremost consideration should be beauty, and in this regard Michael Procter certainly succeeds.